


falling (he hates it)

by sujing



Series: love lost [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Love/Hate, M/M, Obsession, POV Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-28 09:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18753349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sujing/pseuds/sujing
Summary: Tom can’t get his mind off his Transfiguration professor.Or, in which Tom overthinks all the wrong (right?) things and ultimately comes to the unpleasant conclusion that he is in love.Almost a direct continuation of Part 1, except this one doesn’t lead into Part 2.





	falling (he hates it)

**Author's Note:**

> I never said these one-shots had to be in the same universe—
> 
> This was originally meant to be fluffy, but it’s actually just ~2k consecutive words of Tom hating on Dumbledore only to fumble it in the end. It turned out somewhat angsty instead :')
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.

Him again. Always him. Parading around in his garish, mismatched, rainbow-vomit-in-a-kaleidoscope excuses for robes just like that insufferable phoenix he keeps in his office during the day. Smiling so welcomingly, so warmly, like he never did at Tom, not until recently (not until _that_ incident a week ago), as he greets his peers good morning. His eyes twinkle cheerily, blue as the clear sky on a bright summer’s day, but all Tom can focus on is the stinging of bile rising to his throat.

Tom watches from the Slytherin table as Dumbledore takes his seat at the staff table beside Dippet. (Just ‘Dumbledore’, never ‘Professor’, not unless Tom is mocking him or is forced to be polite, for the sake of his own image—it’s too impersonal, too subservient and unequal. When they are alone, Tom doesn’t need to pretend. He’s given up on that long ago.) 

Tom’s grip around his fork tightens as he stabs its metal prongs into his breakfast. The yolk of his egg breaks and spurts thick oozing yellow across his plate. He turns his head stubbornly away, but continues watching from the corner of his eye.

Tom sits, as he does at every meal, at the end of their house’s table, the very furthest he can get from the staff. (It’s the opposite of class. He can’t stand to be so close, can’t stand the pressure of always being on his very best behaviour, that befitting the model student Tom presents himself as.) But, somehow, Dumbledore’s presence crosses the distance anyway, as if it were nothing. He is always there, that warm spot on the other side of the room, and Tom is ever acutely aware of him. Tom can trace his steps around the hall even when his eyes are closed.

It might be that Dumbledore’s magic is powerful (it is alluring, in that forbidden sort of way), but Tom suspects the source of the draw is something more. Something _deeper._

Tom can list a thousand reasons why he hates Dumbledore.

He hates the way Dumbledore’s robes align subtly with the weather, some days as dazzling as the sweltering rays of the sun, other days more muted, yet still intricately detailed and uniquely him nonetheless. On those grey, windy days of clouds and rain and yet more clouds so common to the British Isles, he opts to dress for the night instead, clothing himself in the deepest midnight blues speckled with little dots of the distant stars.

Dumbledore never wears grey. Even in the worst of weathers, he always manages to find something else to fixate his bizarre sense of fashion on.

Tom hates the way Dumbledore takes his tea in the morning. That is to say, he _doesn’t_ , the heathen _._ Dumbledore doesn’t consume tea, the universally-acclaimed British drink, odd as that is to comprehend. He requests a different strange concoction every day, and Tom would think that the house-elves must be tired of it, if not for the fact that everyone in the castle, humans and non-humans alike, seems to worship Dumbledore (except Tom). Tom isn’t quite sure what his daily brews consist of, and he thinks he might be better off not knowing, or risk spoiling his appetite otherwise, because Dumbledore has always been known for his peculiarity.

Tom wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore to try something disgusting like newt spleen blended with fairy wings just to know what it tastes like. 

Today it is a flamboyant shade of ruby red. The goblet is made of glass—Dumbledore’s personal cup, Tom suspects, as every other is pewter—it allows the eye-catching colours of the liquid inside to show through. Dumbledore probably prefers it that way. It’s precisely how Tom knows it holds a different mixture every day without moving an inch from his seat.

Tom hates how Dumbledore’s every action captures his attention, sweeping him up like a fish entangled in a master’s great net. No matter how the prey struggles, he cannot get loose, and the ropes only tighten and chafe against him, scraping insistently against his scaly shell.

The ruby liquid clings to the sides of the glass. It is thick like the consistency of clotting blood, except Tom knows well that real blood is darker and less violet. He directs his gaze down at his own cup. Tom, unlike Dumbledore, is fond of tea and takes his plain with neither sugar nor cream added. They are extraneous, in his opinion, unnecessary additions that only serve to mute the true flavours. (That, and the orphanage never could afford luxuries such as those, not during the wartime rations, and he isn’t particularly inclined to change his habits only to return to them in the summer.)

It’s rather boring, actually. Tom is always so perfectly prim and proper.

Tom wipes his mouth with a napkin and pushes his plate away. There’s no use denying it. His appetite is ruined. But, he thinks, there might yet be hope for salvaging his morning if he escapes Dumbledore’s presence quickly. He stands up and dismisses a questioning glance from Constans as he leaves.

It does not escape his notice that Dumbledore beams at him across the hall in quiet amusement as he slips out the doors.

(He does not return the sentiment. He has done nothing to deserve it.)

* * *

Tom hates how Dumbledore has only to smile for the whole class to swoon, especially the girls. It is like he has an entire legion of dedicated admirers, with everyone else clamouring to join. Though Dumbledore’s greatest following lies in Gryffindor, the house for which he serves as their Head, they span all four houses, as if no barriers exist between them at all.

Today is no different. Beside him, Lucretia is just as unbearable as usual and won’t hear a word of Tom’s criticisms.

“I don’t know what you’re always on about, Tom,” she says, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Professor Dumbledore is patient and considerate of his students. If you want someone to complain about, complain about Binns.”

Dumbledore makes it look natural. Granted, he is decades Tom’s senior and has the advantage of being in a position of authority that naturally demands admiration, but Dumbledore is effortlessly the most popular person in the castle, even over Tom.

It’s not his looks. His auburn hair is nice enough, but his face is rendered imperfect by his crooked nose. Physically, he appears just about forty, but then again, wizards age strangely, and Tom has it on good authority that Merrythought is at the very least in her seventies.

She doesn’t look it. Frankly, he’s surprised she’s considering retiring already.

Tom just can’t compete with Dumbledore, no matter how hard he tries. Dumbledore makes it seem easy, and Tom hates him for it. Tom doesn’t understand why he gathers the faith of others the way he does, doesn’t understand how he does it.

Tom hates how kind Dumbledore always is, how gentle and patient he is with his students, even the dimmest, slowest of the bunch. Tom can never stand it, having to deal with those so far below himself, not for longer than a few minutes at a time. It matters not how they beg him to tutor them in this and that—Tom always has his excuses, spinning tales of how precious little time he has to spare. (It’s not exactly false, though it might seem so to an outsider, the way that time is spent. Tom didn’t exactly receive extra credit for his discovery of the Chamber.)

It has to be an act, right? No one could possibly be that intrinsically good, not really, and Dumbledore benefits plenty from his reputation, which is more than enough motivation to pull off this charade. A wizard as powerful as he is ought to be feared, but instead, everyone sees him as friendly and reliable—Britain’s best hope for a defence against Grindelwald, whose threat lingers on the horizon even as enemy bombs terrorise the Muggle world.

He ought to be respected, ought to _want_ to be respected, but Tom grudgingly admits that there are some benefits to being underestimated, though he would never want it for himself. _Lord Voldemort_  would strike terror into the hearts of every witch and wizard with his name alone.

He doesn’t need to surpass Dumbledore in that regard. It will be unnecessary.

He hates how Dumbledore shines his sunny disposition on him as well now. Tom, who is used to his shadowy domain where the sun never reaches, is made discomfited by its sudden warmth. It’s as if Dumbledore pities Tom or something—like Dumbledore doesn’t realise Tom never wanted his pity, absolutely not, except for maybe in that first moment when they met and Tom was still eleven and quite naïve, before Dumbledore opened his mouth and ruined everything.

What does Tom want from him, if not his pity?

Tom hates how it feels as if there is an entire ocean separating them, despite the exceedingly short distance between his seat at the front of the classroom and where Dumbledore stands before the blackboard, hates how Dumbledore makes him feel as if he will never be enough, always inadequate, always insufficient. ( _He_ , who is heir to Slytherin’s great legacy, _he_ , who has conquered death, something even Dumbledore cannot claim to have accomplished.)

He hates how they might never stand on the same level, hates how even as he grows taller and taller physically, he will always be that small orphan boy. Insignificant, no matter that their eyes might finally meet without Tom having to look up at an angle. (In class, as they are now, Tom is inferior, while Dumbledore leads at the front.) He hates how Dumbledore’s gaze sweeps over him as if he is nothing but unwanted dust beneath his feet. He hates how Dumbledore expects so little of him and cares not for his efforts to prove himself. He hates how Dumbledore refuses to acknowledge him despite his class being Tom’s best subject by far, even over Defence.

Tom cares. He cares too much, what Dumbledore thinks of him. Dumbledore may well be the only person whose opinion truly means anything to Tom, the only opinion that is not merely a means to an end (that end being power, of course).

Dumbledore poses a question to the class, but no one raises their hand to answer.

“Hmm,” Dumbledore muses thoughtfully, “not too eager this morning, I see. That’s too bad. Ah, Tom,” he calls. “Would you mind? I’m sure you know the answer. You’ve always taken care to read ahead.”

Tom didn’t volunteer. He doesn’t need to. There is a tacit understanding between them that Tom can answer any question Dumbledore could reasonably ask. Tom knows the material for their year perfectly, has memorised the textbook verbatim months ahead of exams, understands every concept perfectly. He could practically teach the class himself.

(Except, a voice quietly whispers in his mind, the students like Dumbledore more. He is more friendly. Amiable. There _was_ always something off about Riddle. Riddle is far too perfect. Inhuman and unsettling, like an animated doll.)

“Of course,” Tom says, nodding. He answers diligently and barely keeps a flicker of annoyance from showing on his face when Dumbledore’s expression lights up.

“Five points to Slytherin.”

It’s fake, like burning plastic on his tongue. Tom doesn’t want Dumbledore’s cheap approval, nor his petty house points (those he already earns in droves from every professor), not that which he hands out so easily like sweets to every student that crosses his path. Tom wants to mean something to Dumbledore, to leave a mark on him that Tom alone can lay claim to. He wants to carve himself into Dumbledore’s skin so that Dumbledore will never forget Tom.

He wants to expose Dumbledore for what he truly is, wants to know each and every one of his darkest, most damning secrets, wants to grasp Dumbledore’s still beating heart in his hands to feel it thrumming anxiously, its rhythm a song only for him.

* * *

Tom can’t get Dumbledore out of his sleeping mind, much less his waking one.

He dreams of him again as he tosses and turns that night, constructing violent fantasies rife with exposed flesh and thick flowing scarlet not so unlike Dumbledore’s latest morning brew. It should sicken Tom, and it does, tossing his stomach around like a wringer and throwing him off rhythm for entire days, but for all the wrong reasons. (He is not unused to bloodshed, and it does not disturb him. If anything, it should be fascinating.)

Around and around the question of what and why resounds within him, pounding against the walls of his mind, sending every fibre of his being quivering with an unidentifiable emotion. He looks haggard in the mornings, and his housemates have become concerned for his health. They think it’s his studies putting too much pressure on him—that he’s taking too many O.W.L.s.

It’s not.

They never do satisfy him, his involuntary imaginings. He realises that he must find some other avenue of release, but he can’t imagine what would remedy this. Not when he can’t even name what ails him. For the time being, he has charmed his curtains so that his dorm mates cannot bear further witness to his weakness, though he would not choose to end the dreams, even if he could.

There is something about them he can’t quite put his finger on yet that he intends to solve.

It’s tempting to seek Alphard again, but Tom knows that it would not appease his agitation. It hardly did the first time, and an argument could be made that it only exacerbated the problem. No, Tom would be foolish to think it would the second time. Tom will not have a repeat of that particular lapse of judgement.

He hates what they do to each other. They move along a circle visible only to them, always ready for a fight to erupt, but it never does. The pressure builds and builds, the anticipation mounts, yet the feared earthquake that threatens to bring the castle’s foundations to ruins never comes.

He hates how they will never know peace so long as the other lives, no matter how far they distance themselves from the other.

It is as if they are interconnected as deep as their souls, silly as that sounds. (Tom knows that souls are real. He has seen his own, touched it, torn it apart and felt the agony of its separation.)

He hates how this can only end badly and hates how though he knows this to be true, he still wants to pursue him. To make him _his_ and to make Dumbledore admit that he has lost.

There is only one eventuality that exists in Tom’s mind. His incontestable victory.

He dons his robes and affixes his Prefect badge to his chest and slips out of the dorms and through the common room. He presses his index finger to his lips as he passes a sleepy portrait. As he steps out into the dark dungeon corridor, he murmurs a quiet ‘ _Lumos_ ’.

He can pass it off as a number of things. He can say it’s simple school business; part of his duties. He can lie; make something up. He’s become very adept at that. Dumbledore wouldn’t suspect the truth. Dumbledore can’t even fault him, can he? Not really…not unless he intends to neglect his duties as a professor, and he wouldn’t stand for that.

It’s odd, to seek him out instead of Slughorn, who Tom should be more familiar and comfortable with, but Tom can shrug that off easily enough. It is widely known that Slughorn enjoys his sleep and does not appreciate being disturbed unnecessarily at this time of night. Dumbledore seemed more prudent—Dumbledore is most responsible. (He won’t believe that, not while Tom is the one saying it, but it won’t matter whether he does or doesn’t. An excuse, any excuse, will be enough.)

Tom won’t allow Dumbledore to pry, and Dumbledore should really know better. (He does know better. He obtained nothing from Tom in relation to Warren’s death.)

No, if Tom wants something, he will stop at nothing to get it. He is determined. He does not do things halfway.

He breezes silently through the dungeons and through corridors and stairwells towards where he knows Dumbledore’s chambers are.

No doubt Dumbledore is still awake. Tom knows he sleeps little, preferring to spend his time grading his students’ papers, preparing lesson plans, or reading up on the latest discoveries in his field. Tom glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s only midnight.

Perfect.

He reaches that familiar branch of the castle, secluded in its own small wing, the curved flight of stairs leading to a tower that is Dumbledore’s domain alone (and Fawkes’s, who delights in perching at the window to sun himself).

It is only natural that Tom knows where Dumbledore spends his nights. It may be concealed, and quite carefully, but Tom has explored the castle thoroughly in his search for the Chamber of Secrets. He would go so far as to say he knows the castle better than Dumbledore himself.

Tom is, after all, nothing if not obsessive.

He ascends the steps lightly, gliding upwards as if floating and approaches a peculiar-looking statue of a griffin.

“I need to see Dumbledore,” Tom announces.

“At this time of night?” the griffin asks with an incredulous shake of its wings.

“He is still awake, isn’t he?” He gives the statue a threatening look. They stare each other down. The griffin paws the ground.

“Well, alright,” it finally grouses, moving aside. “He’s still poring over those publications of his. Up you go.”

Tom dips his head in acknowledgement as he passes. As he makes his way up the tower, the dim light of his wand is gradually overtaken by the warm glow of candlelight.

“Tom. What brings you here?” Dumbledore says pleasantly without a glance behind himself. He is sitting at a desk by his bed, stacks of magazines piled haphazardly before him. One cover, Tom spots, declares itself to be _Transfiguration Today_ , the splash sporting the image of a wizard with a pair of scaly dragon’s wings erupting from his back. They sway to and fro, moving beyond the bounds of the frame as he waves at the camera.

Tom opens his mouth to reply, but the rehearsed words don’t come.

“I wished to discuss something with you,” he says instead.

Dumbledore calmly turns the page of the journal that he is currently perusing. “My office is always open to you.”

“It’s not that!” Tom snaps, reminded of his housemates’ constant inquiries about his schoolwork. At the same time, he experiences a rush of strangely familiar warmth sweeping over him.

He quashes it with vigour.

“Not schoolwork—it’s another concern of mine.” He glances around himself at the room. It’s full of odd trinkets and shelves upon shelves of various books and magazines, even some Muggle fiction that he recognises. Fawkes is already asleep on his perch. “May I sit?”

Dumbledore flicks his wand casually behind him and conjures a chair, pulling it up beside him. He gestures at it, splaying his lengthy fingers wide, his mildly-toned wand resting deftly between the index and middle.

Tom twitches at the nonchalant display of magic, as if Dumbledore thinks that Tom couldn’t do it himself. He takes the offered seat at Dumbledore’s side anyway, however, and pushes a stack of paper aside to rest his arms on the desk.

“Now, what is it that has you seeking my advice so late at night?”

Tom bites his lip. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Not an uncommon ailment for students nearing their O.W.L.s,” Dumbledore observes. “But, as you said, that isn’t quite it, is it?”

“I don’t need your help. I’m doing just fine with schoolwork.” _More than fine_ , and they both know it. “I just wanted—” he starts, before halting abruptly in his tracks.

This isn’t going as he imagined at all. Now that he thinks on it again, his mind unmuddled by feverish impressions of dreams and false realities, it was a rather impulsive decision to come here, wasn’t it? It hits Tom that he doesn’t actually know why he is here, just that he needed to see Dumbledore, needed to reaffirm, assert, verify, _something_ —

He has no clue. Frustrated heat rises to his face.

“Just wanted to see you.”

Dumbledore finally turns to face him, setting the journal in his hands down and flipping it shut. Tom meets his eyes defiantly. They’re gentle.

“I have to say, Tom, I am rather surprised. You’ve been...different, this past week. More civil. I do appreciate it, whatever your motivations. I didn’t think it was possible.”

A white-hot flash of betrayal flits across Tom’s vision. “You told me you wouldn’t speak of that!” Tom exclaims sharply. If he has been more ‘civil’, it’s only because—only because Tom refuses to entertain Dumbledore’s worthless platitudes—because he doesn’t want to waste his time on meaningless back-and-forths, dancing perpetually around the elephant between them!

Dumbledore eyes him carefully. “Only if you do not wish to. Am I mistaken in my assumption?”

Tom digs his nails into the wood. “Of course I don’t want to hear it. You’re delusional to think I want to be reminded of those _lies!_ ” he hisses.

Because it is a _lie_ that they mean nothing and will never be. It is a _lie_ that Tom loves him—how absurd to even consider it! To love, Tom believes, is to cherish and hold above all else, in the highest regard and more, to desire a closeness like none other, that beyond even physical flesh. A touch of skin against skin as mere pale imitation. That? How could he? Tom _hates_ Dumbledore. What they have is nothing like those idealistic notions. It is something greater. And, speaking of hate—it is the greatest lie that Dumbledore does not return his hatred. Tom can feel the searing acidity of it blazing through his scorched veins at the very sight of him.

How can Dumbledore possibly not know it too?

“Do you mean to say that your recent about-face is not, in fact, indicative of a shift in opinions?” Dumbledore asks curiously.

Tom clenches his teeth and shakes his head. “I don’t know how you came up with that ridiculous idea. Why is it that you insist upon thinking so little of me?” he all but demands.

“Ah.” Dumbledore’s expression changes. It is as if something has suddenly been made clear to him, the fog dissipated by the morning sun. “Do you refer to what I said a week ago? Please do not misinterpret my intentions—I merely wished to avoid taking undue advantage of your situation. I thought you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Tom chooses to ignore him.

“I can help, you know. With Grindelwald.” To prove himself, despite his age. To prove that he is relevant. Worthy. A player to be reckoned. His voice rises passionately in pitch. “I have no idea why you are so reluctant to confront him, but you need only ask. I can—”

“It would pain me to place such a burden upon you, Tom.”

“I am different from my housemates, Dumbledore!” Tom cries, frustrated. “They know nothing—the pure-bloods are too sheltered by their parents, and the few half-bloods we have are happy to go on believing that everything is just fine. They are blinded by their false senses of security. They know not how the war rages on in the Muggle world, have no clue the magnitude of the threat that Grindelwald poses to everyone!”

“I can’t say I realised how much you cared about politics.”

“It’s not politics. It’s a bloody _war._ ”

“And I would be foolish not to acknowledge it as such,” Dumbledore says with an amused smile. “If I may be quite frank...and I have told this to no other, Tom, so you have no need to feel left out...Grindelwald and I have a complicated history.”

“You knew him?”

“We were close.”

Tom stiffens at the implication. “ _Close?_ ” he repeats accusingly.

Dumbledore turns to gaze out the window at the darkened sky. “I rather think it is too late for such a serious subject,” he remarks conversationally. “Perhaps we may continue at another time. You ought to be in bed, Tom. Lost sleep does not make for top marks, and I would be loath to cause you to lose your spot.” He makes to stand and dismiss Tom, but Tom jumps up first, grabbing Dumbledore’s arm through the soft wool of his sleeve. Dumbledore looks genuinely caught off guard, and for a brief moment, Tom revels in it. Despite the suddenness of Tom’s action, Dumbledore does not pull away.

Tom knows he’ll regret it in the morning, but he’s also convinced he’ll regret it more if he doesn’t.

In a lose-lose situation, why not do what he wants? It is a sort of calculated impulsiveness, in that entirely Slytherin (and definitely not Gryffindor) way.

“I think I meant what I said, after all,” Tom says, holding on firmly, a fire burning newly in his gaze. “I swear to you, Dumbledore, no matter what you think of me, whether you want my assistance or not, I _will_ take Grindelwald down. You? You need only watch.”

It is no Unbreakable Vow, but the words are heavy all the same, a magic of their own—a promise.

Tom releases his grip and rushes out of the tower, leaving Dumbledore behind. As he leaves, he catches the briefest glimpse of absolute bewilderment on Dumbledore’s face. This time, however, he doesn’t revel in the least at having provoked a reaction. He returns to the dorms, not so carefully in his haste, stumbling blindly into another’s bedpost along the way to his bed. He rolls on top of the covers and scrunches a pillow in his face.

He screams. (The silencing charm is still up.)

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

Gryffindor may as well be his secondary house. It may as well be his _actual_ house, if not for his heritage, his actions tonight have been so rash. (What was it the Sorting Hat had said about the founder’s blood returning at last?)

At least it’s for something he truly cares about. It’s not entirely stupid and meaningless, and he does stand to gain plenty if he succeeds. (There might be hope for him yet.) The responsibility that currently lies on Dumbledore’s shoulders, along with all the fame and respect that comes with it? Tom will seize it all.

But, hell, where has his sense of self-preservation disappeared to? As confident as he felt mere minutes ago, it _is_ ridiculous to think that he could defeat Grindelwald as he is now. Dumbledore wasn’t entirely wrong about that. Tom can’t just abandon his studies for it, not unless he wants to upend everything he’s worked for in the past several years at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore would be disappointed, too, if he did something as drastic as that. Tom can’t afford to alienate him, even as he tells him to stand aside and watch. What would be the point of it all then?

Then again, it’s likely that the war will continue for a while yet, at least on the magical front, if not the Muggle one as well. Tom still has time. He can plan and prepare carefully. He will train his Knights to support him in his quest accordingly, and when the time comes, he’ll either snatch the right opportunity as it arises or simply create it himself. The absence of a discernible opening would hardly stop him. He would do anything…

…Oh, God. Tom—Tom does love him, doesn’t he? And they both thought him incapable. True, it is far from anything Dumbledore would likely identify as love under normal circumstances, but…

_to cherish and hold above all else…_ _  
_ _to desire a closeness like none other…_

_to prove himself… worthy._

For whom else, other than himself, would Tom take down someone as powerful as a Dark Lord? Dumbledore is certainly not an extension of Tom, though at times it seems to him as if Tom wishes he were.

Because, then, Tom could say with certainty that Dumbledore is _his._

Tom still hates him. He hates him more because of it, this Chinese finger trap of a connection they have. Even knowing that to ‘relax’ may be the solution to their release, both continue on stubbornly, refusing to admit defeat.

Tom hates him, but his love for him is greater. He loves him desperately and with immeasurable need. (Or why else would Tom fall so far as to seek his company when Tom should rightfully be asleep? He was never one to find comfort in others.)

What a joke this is. (Tom doesn’t regret it, not yet. He meant every word he said. Tom may be a skilled liar, but that does not mean he cannot keep to his promises.)

Tom collapses on his sheets in a fit of choked laughter as Abraxas watches in sleepy confusion through the still-open curtains. Thankfully, he has the sense not to ask, and after a moment, Abraxas draws his own curtains back shut. Tom hears the whumpf of him sinking back into his bed.

It hurts Tom to lose so thoroughly, but it is all he can do to grasp onto the feeling as tightly as if his life depends on it. And maybe, just maybe, it does.

Tom presses his hand to his chest against the cotton of his shirt. There, beneath fabric, skin, and bone, his heart pounds with steady determination, pumping rich blood through his veins. He has exposed himself, laid visible his greatness weakness for the exploiting to he who should be his greatest enemy, but all he feels is  _ alive. _

It is nothing like the frenzied excitement of the kill, nothing like the smug satisfaction of another pawn swayed, nothing like the hazy promise of a better future.

This is something that exists only in the present, and though his heart may burst from it, he would never have it escape. It is fragile, and it is precious. He will guard it jealously.

He will _cherish_ it.

“I love you,” he whispers, and upon the words’ second utterance, they ring true.

**Author's Note:**

> Tom doesn’t understand why anyone (least of all himself) likes Dumbledore. It doesn’t make it any less true, however. 
> 
> ~~~
> 
> i’m actually sort of convinced that tom’s secondary house is gryffindor (rather than ravenclaw)
> 
> there’s a certain kind of nice irony there too re: harry
> 
> just because you deny it doesn't make it untrue ;)
> 
> *runs away*


End file.
